


Next Stop, Please

by scy



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scy/pseuds/scy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleaning up wounds sustained in the course of a trap and a family reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Stop, Please

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, I know that the network has a thing about their stars being pretty, and so there probably isn't going to be much evidence of the Winchesters getting themselves *clawed* in the next episode, so here's one explanation. Well, the one that works for me anyway.

By the time they reached truck stop, it was morning. Dean was leaning on the car, trying to look alert as he scanned the parking lot, but came off as tired and ready to tip over just as soon as possible. He'd insisted that Sam get cleaned up first, though, and accepting meant taking a moment that they could both use to collect themselves, so Sam went along with the suggestion.

Stepping inside, Sam squinted into the feeble light, eyes still sensitive from last night's pyrotechnics. Even with the most subdued illumination, it was clear that the facilities were minimal and the brightening coat of eggshell white that still welcomed on the outside had, on the interior, faded had faded into a grimy shade of rust and dirt. He'd been in much less maintained places, and so his only second glance was to ensure that any shadows remained stationary before he stepped up to the sink. After rinsing it out once, he pulled the stopper up and filled it with tepid water.

As the faucet choked and spat unpolluted water, Sam wiped the mirror clean with his sleeve and leaned in to look at the damage. Blood had long since crusted on his check and he winced as he probed the claw marks. They were deep enough that he knew they at least needed more than gauze and Neosporin, but in the meantime he needed to clean them out.

Gritting his teeth, he wetted a paper towel and dabbed at the gouges, biting his lip and trying to focus on his reflection instead of the pain.

One of Dean's annoying habits was knowing just when Sam had gotten to the worst of something and being eerily punctual about appearing. The door groaned and Sam cursed as his hand slipped and pressed harder than he meant to.

"I'm almost done," he said warningly, not sure if Dean was in a helpful mood or if he wanted Sam to hurry up and let him know whether or not they needed to find an emergency room that wouldn't scoff at stories of animal attacks thins far away from actual wilderness.

Dean kept silent; a rare enough occurrence when they weren't in danger, but following the night they'd had, understandable. His own face was streaked and filthy and from the way he was moving, Sam guessed that his coat was hiding something that would need attention soon.

"Pull up a sink, there's plenty of room, and you're a mess."

Still not responding, Dean came up beside him and leaned on the wall between the mirror and the hand-dryer. He watched as Sam tried to ignore him and clean up at the same time.

When Sam found that the spray of blood extended into his hairline he let out an annoyed hiss. "I'm not gonna get all of this off until we find a shower, so forget it." He dropped the crumpled paper towels in the trashcan and frowned at the image in the mirror. "So, you think stitches, or band aids?" It wasn't intended as anything but a professional inquiry, so Sam was a bit surprised to see Dean's expression. It was one of those flashes of emotion that he couldn't always catch and wasn't even fluent in reading these days, but it was enough to know that Dean was thinking about something other than first aid. Still, he shook it off quickly and straightened up away from the wall.

"Let me see." Putting his fingers over Sam's jaw on the uninjured side, Dean scrutinized his face, tilting Sam's head back and narrowing his eyes speculatively. He hadn't gotten cleaned up yet, and Sam let his eyes over the path blood had taken from a gash down the side of his face.

"The bastards got you pretty good," was Dean's conclusion and Sam reminded him of the obvious with a flick of his eyes.

Dean shrugged off the reminder of his own 'war wounds,' and pulled a box out of his shirt pocket; it was bent from careless treatment, but held together for the time it took Dean to shake out the last several band aids onto his palm.

"Sit down," Dean said, and directed Sam to a small stool probably used for kids when they needed a step up. Sam deliberately stood taller for a second and then smirked as Dean snorted and pushed him into place.

"I think a hospital's a better bet," Sam said as Dean frowned and mapped out where best to put the bandages with a sort of connecting the dots dance of fingertips over Sam's skin.

"Hard to explain this," Dean reminded him. "Anyway, we maxed out the last couple cards with our wardrobe for this job." He added, "Clothes horse."

"The uniforms worked, didn't they?"

"Yeah, they were a great success, and so was the way you got involved with the one girl in town who had it in for us."

"That's only because we didn't stay long enough for your 'friends' to catch onto your game."

If they were both reading their scripts and Dean hadn't torn his up and used it to make paper airplanes, this would have been the time for a comfortable exchange of insults. Along the lines of Dean being unable to think of anything but women and Sam not knowing how to handle women at all, and they'd have given each other a few more bruises. But somehow it wasn't as easy to do that right now, and if Sam opened his mouth he knew that he might say something that would prompt another conversation where they actually said the important stuff. They had their most honest moments when they were mad, or over some trivial task that they could do without looking, but which made it easier to look in another direction when the questions got hard. He'd been honest, said what he thought, and he didn't think that Dean was overly interested in discussing the subject of what would happen down the road too soon. Even so, Sam felt the space where Dad would have been, lurching over to the other sink and ignoring their bickering until he felt their was a question of anything getting accomplished.

They weren't going to be able to go on any jobs that required actual human contact until they got someone to look at their faces, and Sam could tell that Dean was considering different options and discarding them before he even brought them up to Sam. That was another thing that he did which bothered Sam; making the decisions that he thought that Sam didn't need to handle, without really asking whether Sam wanted to help or not.

Mind wandering, he couldn't figure out which was worse; that they looked like they'd been through a horror movie, or that their lives were just like the goriest splatter film, and he was the guy who was determined to walk away in the end. His great plan for the future was to leave his brother behind again, even if that wasn't what he meant. This time he knew what it would be like for Dean, but he didn't have any intention of changing his mind. He had been the villain in his own mind once already, and wasn't ready to knowingly play the part again.

"This'll hold you over until we get it looked at."

"By a doctor?" As opposed to one's brother, whose idea of a 'quick fix' meant Sam felt like he was going to get stopped for being in public with amateur cover-up.

"A guy I know." And really, Dean had to know that was in the top ten of 'worst lines to utter in a rundown truck stop bathroom while you were pasting band aids on your brother's face.'

"Don't start," Dean advised, and his expression warned Sam that it would be a dumb idea to keep pushing. Depending on who this person was, Sam might let it drop, or he'd enjoy tormenting Dean about his 'contact' later, when he didn't feel like words were still too large to be trusted.

"Alright, let me get cleaned up and then we can take off." Grabbing his own handful of paper towels, Dean began swiping roughly at his face.

After a couple seconds of muffled curses, Sam got the impression that Dean didn't care whether he scrubbed a layer of skin off, so long as the blood was gone. He could only watch for so long and then the frustration was too much.

"You're making it worse, moron, give it here."

"It's fine."

"Yeah, but you look like you've been slapped around by a cat." He got to his feet and took the towels from Dean, moving him none too gently onto the step-stool. This was one of the only times when he got to look at Dean square in the face and have a justification for not letting him turn away. Predictably, Dean's gaze was fixed somewhere past Sam's left ear and didn't move even when Sam cleared his throat.

"What're you staring at?"

"You need a haircut."

"And how's that a priority?"

"It's not, I just thought I'd mention it. You're starting to look sort of girly."

"Thanks, that's good to know."

"You're welcome."

That was just like Dean to take the attention off him and redirect it onto Sam in a way that was sure to make him annoyed and self-conscious. Sam could feel his hair now, like a snug cap rubbing against his ears and the length was going to keep on bugging him from now on.

He glanced at Dean and noticed again how 'regulation' his own haircut was. It had grown out some, but Sam could still see the military precision of a blade's path over his scalp. Even their hairstyles were personal expressions, and if he was thinking like this, it was way past time to get some seep.

The daevas had sliced neatly down almost the middle of Dean's forehead, but done it at enough of an angle that there was almost a statement underneath the blood. There were moments when Sam thought it was easier to read into what the monsters left behind than try and understand their motives, but all he could make out on Dean's skin was 'tag, you're it.' Somehow, Dean hadn't had to look at what it had written to know what they had to do. Sam still wasn't sure that it had been the only right thing to do, but it had been all they had.

"Okay, now let me see your side." Sam moved to push Dean's coat out of the way and got his hand slapped. "Fine, I won't touch your jacket, just take it off." When Dean did so, Sam frowned and jabbed at his ribs in reprimand. "We really don't have the stuff to take care of this."

"I told you, I know a guy, just get it bandaged and it'll be fine."

"Alright." Sam wondered where Dad was, if he had someone he could call, or if he thought that there was time to do something like tend to his wounds before going after the thing that was out to get all of them.

He didn't look up from affixing tape and gauze to the slice spanning Dean's ribs, not even when he thought he saw the suggestion of their father's shape out of the corner of his eye. The idea of them not being alone was too attractive to banish quite yet. When he'd seen to the last scrape, Sam dropped their trash in the ca, waited for Dean to button his shirt back up and followed him outside.

If the wind was cold enough to sting his face, then it just gave him another reason to duck his head and not look back.


End file.
